


This Crude Matter

by juniorstarcatcher



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 07:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3720964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juniorstarcatcher/pseuds/juniorstarcatcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year has passed since the fall of the Jedi Order, and Obi-Wan Kenobi is deep in hiding in the Outer Rim.  A year of quiet meditation and isolation. A year without incident.  A year with no one to visit but the ghosts of his past and the echoes of his sins.  That is, until a knock on his door that would change everything.  </p><p>Breccon Talel has been seeking out any and all Jedi since his escape from the Temple on that horrible night.  When an acquaintance mentions a Kenobi living on Tatooine, Breccon has no choice but to investigate. </p><p>Saramar Hartick is simply trying to survive.  Same as anyone else. The problem is, trouble always seems to find her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Crude Matter

The world ceased to turn the day he lost Anakin.  His brother, his companion, his friend.  It was as if the incalculable heartbeat of the entire universe seemed to slow and slow and slow until finally it halted entirely, leaving the once Jedi to wander through a frozen collection of statues he once called his world.  He rarely spoke, rarely ventured outside his small abode in the desert, rarely even thought of what lay outside his walls, truth be told.  When he opened his eyes, he saw a universe stripped of color and interest; its sounds were lost on his ears as if he had been caught deaf by some sudden, loud blast of noise a long time ago.  What could living hold for him now but ghosts?  Grey, lifeless, hollow ghosts of the life he once lead and the souls who inhabited it.  On the rare occasions he allowed himself a respite from his near-constant meditation, Obi-Wan would see them all, lined up in rows of carnage and guilt- guilt he would quickly wrap away and lock in a drawer deep within himself.  Anakin.  Padmé.  Qui-Gon.  Plo and Shaak-Ti and Windu and all of the younglings.  Every one of his imagined phantoms would stand there, looking at him silently, waiting for an explanation, an answer that he knew he could never give.  As his first year of seclusion drug on, he would find that the once raised abbrasions of torment were sinking in ever deeper into the flesh of his skin, leaving behind invisible but undeniably deep scars of guilt that he carried with him no matter where he went.  That is his first year of isolation.  His first year on Tatooine. His first year of silence.  His first year  _after_. 

Obi-Wan Kenobi is meditating when his world begins turning once again.  The day began just like any other day, and just like any day to come, as far as he could tell.  The twin suns rose over the horizon and he rose from his pallette to greet the morning.   A deep breath of stale desert air.  And then, to his meditations.  He sits on his floor, surrounded by the few material objects that adorn his space, and begins to clear his mind.  Piece by piece, he puts his fears, his anxieties, his hopes, his wishes, away and allows his thoughts to become placid, regulated as his heartbeat.  He waits for nothing, wants for nothing.  

But all the same, something comes.  A knock.  Three knocks, to be precise.  Three unconfident raps on the back door.  

For a moment, Obi-Wan is able to convince himself that it isn't at all real.  No, it must be a concoction of a stray thought, an audible apparition that he must rid himself of if he is going to center himself for the day.  He doesn't move.  

Another knock.  This one more sure, more certain than the three that came before.  It is a declaration, not a question.  

This is most unusual, Obi-Wan thinks to himself.  He opens one eye, hoping that perhaps this will dispell whatever his mind has conjured up.

A fifth knock. Then a sixth, then a seventh, then an eigth.  

"Hello?" A voice from the other side of the door.

It is only then that Obi-Wan deigns to open his second eye and once again return, return his  _entire_  self, to the land of the living.  The knocking continues, as does the voice. 

"Hello? Is anyone there?"  The voice is hushed, a secret of a voice, but Obi-Wan can sense that it is a young man.  The Force is suddenly everywhere.  Resurfacing as if someone has struck him between the eyes, Obi-Wan can feel the pulsating energy of the creature on the other side of the wall.  He reaches for his lightsaber with little certainty regarding whether or not he would actually wield it.  

"Who goes there?" Obi-Wan asks, shocked to hear that his voice has the slightest shake to it. 

He steps closer to the door, every hair on his body bristling in readiness for an attack.  The Clone Wars and his time as a General perhaps left more of a memory in his muscles than he would have liked to admit.  

"Who goes  _there_?" The voice replies.  

Had Obi-Wan a sense of humor left in him, he might have rolled his eyes and sighed at the ridiculous, riddle-like nature of this exchange so far. But, having not the slightest trace of laugh lines left to his skin, he chooses instead to scowl, "You're the one knocking on my door. Who do you think I am?"

The response that he receives, no more than a whisper on the dry Tatooine wind, shakes him to his very core; a rippling vibration shudders through The Force with enough power to send Obi-Wan a step backward.  

"Master Kenobi?" Comes the quiet response, more a question than an answer.  

 

"Who is seeking him?"

"I do.  Jedi Knight Breccon Talel."

That name.  Within Obi-Wan, the sound of it immediately conjures up at least a hundred sights and sounds and emotions, all connected to a padawan, and then a knight he remembers from The Temple.  One of the many, many, too many, that were registered as deceased after the Purge. 

_Obi-Wan is sitting in a training room, looking across at a young boy with sharp features and dark hair, a young boy who looks back at him with wide, interested eyes.  Too wide and too interested for a lesson in meditation.  The other students have since gone on their way, closing their eyes and lulling themselves into a state of rest and peace, but not this one._

_"Young one, what is your name?" Kenobi asks._

_The boy answers with a slight lisp. His t's come out the slightest bit hitched._

_"Breccon Talel."_

_Kenobi nods, placing his arms atop his knees and letting his eyes slide closed as he speaks in hushed tones._

_"Now, Breccon, I want you to follow my lead.  Just clear your mind.  Let go of what you have been thinking of today.  Forget what you ate this morning, release what you will have to do this afternoon.  Do not think of your classmates or even of me.  Clear the space in your mind and-"_

_The Jedi stops short when he hears a small snore.  He opens his eyes and, sure enough, Breccon sits across from him, head bent at the neck and snores coming from the back of his throat.  Obi-Wan bites back a laugh and tries to wake him._

_"Breccon? Breccon?"_

"Breccon?" Obi-Wan lets the word roll off of his tongue, that word so long out of his vocabulary that it feels foreign on his tongue. His brow furrows, then raises in surprise and realization.  Could it be?  Could someone else have survived?  Could it be possible that his message reached- But- Breccon was counted among the dead...

"Yes, Master Kenobi. It's me."

Obi-Wan reaches for the door and cracks it open just a sliver, just enough to peer through.  And his heart almost stops beating.  It's been a year, that's sure, but, there is no doubting who this is.  The young padawan with sunken black eyes and hair shaved to the scalp who used to fall asleep during morning meditation grew up to be the Jedi Knight that Obi-Wan used to know, and now, a year departed from reading his name on an official account of the dead in the Temple, he is a man, laid low by an emotion the man across from him cannot read with an exhausted, withdrawn face and long black hair that hangs in his too-tired eyes; he looks sickly, small and gaunt, as if something has taken ahold of his body and destroyed it from the inside out. But there is no mistaking this man, no matter how the last year has altered him. Obi-Wan Kenobi is looking at Breccon Talel.  He can feel it from the backs of his eyes and the tips of his fingers.  It's a kind of knowing, a brand of certainty, that he has not felt even once since the Fall of the Order. 

The door opens further without him even giving his arms permission to do it.  A slat of harsh sunlight streaks across his face and he finds himself wincing as he takes in the image before him.  A young man- a pang strikes Kenobi's heart as he realizes how close in age he was to Anakin-looks him in the eye with an unabashed stare of hope.  

"Do you remember me?"

A nod from the former Master, but nothing else.  No indication of any emotion, no move to tighten his grip on his lightsaber or to slam the door in the young Knight's face.  Breccon holds his breath for a moment and tries to control the wave of pure relief that is threatening to avalanche through his entire body.  After months upon months of searching, after all that has happened, he's finally arrived.  He's finally found the one person who could help him.  

"I have been looking for you," he says, unable to really control his own voice.  He shakes his head a little with a quirking smile that feels more like a wince than anything else, "You have no idea how hard it's been to find you."

Master Kenobi is not amused. 

"That is rather the point of hiding, Breccon Talel," he replies.  

All traces of a smile evaporate from the younger man's lips and he nods his head in assent.  Of course Kenobi would not want to be found.  This isn't the first time that such a thought has gone through Breccon's head.  Through the months of searching, it has occured to him many times.  But never once has the thought given him any reason to pause, never once has it given him any incentive to stop his relentless quest.  That is, until now, when he is faced with the man trying so desperately to hide the fear in his eyes.  Breccon looks in either direction, suspicious of anyone who might be listening.  He senses no one, but it is a nervous habit he has developed since that last night at the Temple.  He lowers his voice. 

"Can I come in?  Speak to you?" The Jedi Knight asks, leaning forward with a kind of desperation that only a hunted, desperate man can have. 

But Obi-Wan does not move from the doorway to allow him entry, as Breccon assumed- or rather hoped- that he would.  Instead, he offers up nothing but two words and an apprehensive gaze.  

"Concering what?" 

Breccon appraises the Master across from him, this suddenly small, suddenly caged, Master that he once looked up to so.  The man who Breccon had dreamed would be his master, the man who had survived the unsurvivable, now looks little more than a frightened animal cornered between a ferocious predator and a fence made of spikes.  A heartbreaking reality that now occurs to Breccon is that this is one of only two options given to the Jedi.  Become a frightened shell of your former self or be lost to The Purge.  A pit opens up in the bottom of his stomach and he bites the inside of his lip to keep from grimacing at the thought.  Shadows of shame cross his features and he looks down at the swirling sand around his feet, his simple boots now in even worse shape than they ever have been after crossing the dunes of Tatooine. 

"I..." He begins, trailing off before clearing his throat and seeking out his last stores of courage and emptying them, "I need your help."

Dread fills Obi-Wan's being; no good can come of a sentence like that at a time like this.  No one needs help unless there is danger nipping at their heels and Obi-Wan cannot handle danger.  Not now.  Not so soon.  Not when he has finally become accustomed to peace.  A tenuous peace, sure, but a kind of peace all the same.  He raises an eyebrow.  

"With what?" He asks. 

For all of the hours that Breccon has practiced this conversation in his head, for all of the nights he has dreamt of this moment, he has never, not once, been able to get the true meaning of his visit with Obi-Wan out without stammering.  Even in his mind, when things should be perfect, flawless, he still fancies himself ashamed and terrified of the simple sentence that encapsulates the depth of his desperation.  And, true to his prediction, he stutters his way along, not looking the Master in the eye, not raising his voice above a mumbled whisper, and certainly not with any bravery or fortitude.  With his jaw ground, his hands shaking and his eyes unfocused, he looks as defeated as he feels.  

"My Midi-chlorian count is dropping," Breccon confesses.  

Obi-Wan reels.  Midi-chlorian counts don't drop.  That isn't... It's impossible.  Or, at least, that's what he might have thought a year ago, he corrects himself.  Nothing, now, seems impossible anymore. 

"Dropping?" He repeats, unable to fully comprehend such a statement. 

Breccon nods, his long hair falling across his face, hiding him from Obi-Wan's abrupt stare.  The shame he feels runs so deep and hot that it might as well replace all of the blood in his body.  What is a Jedi without midi-chlorians?  What is a Jedi without his connection to The Force?  He is nothing.  He is nothing at all.  Flexing his hands as if to return some feeling to them, an involuntary twitch that catches Obi-Wan's attention, the young man soldiers on as best as he can, forcing the words from between his teeth like poisoned air. 

"Yes.  I...I can feel it.  My connection to The Force is-" Breccon begins. 

He doesn't even have to finish the sentence. Obi-Wan can feel it too.  In the air, there is something... Withdrawn about the young man's Force presence.  What earlier struck him as powerful, he realizes now is only a fraction of the power it once had.  His time away from other Force-sensitive beings has made him less aware of the nuances of the energies surrounding him.  The danger is real.  It has arrived.  And Obi-Wan knows that he must meet it. 

"Come inside."

Saramar Hartick cannot remember the last time she had a good day.  Truly.  Her life seems to be held up by a nearly toppling tower of small miracles and tiny phenomenon.  Both parents enlisted in the Imperial forces- her father as a pilot, her mother as something of an envoy, if their last communication with their daughter before leaving her alone on Cato Neimoidia is anything to go by she's managed to make a decent life for herself, considering that she began her new, supportless life alone on that damned planet with no credits or connections to speak of.  But there seems to be a target on her back that she can't seem to shake; there must be something about her that just screams, "here I am, universe! Feel free to try and make me suffer! I'm always up for it!"  A fact that feels more true than ever as she sprints down the back alleys of Mos Eisley, her boots kicking up clouds from the packed sand beneath her.  Her breath runs ragged as she tries to keep her eyes focused ahead and her mind tunneled on her next move. 

These sorts of run-ins happen atleast once a week; she should be more prepared than she is, but alas, she drank a little too much at the cantina last night and did not get enough sleep for this sort of thing.  The pounding of steps behind her and the shouts of the passer-by as she shoves her way past them are proving far too much for the headache that is currently railing against her skull.  Beolo and Rycard, two unseemly characters who have, of late, been particular pains in her stiff neck, are following behind her, getting closer and closer as she reaches what she now remembers is a dead end.  She  _knew_  she should have gone right instead of left at the last turn.  She  _knew_ it.  With a huff, she turns left, then right, looking for some kind of upward escape as the men- the creatures- behind her close in.  There's a brick just out of her reach on the building to her right, sticking out from its companions just far enough for a hand to hold onto it.  If she could just reach it-

She jumps, pushing with all of her strength as she reaches her arm upward, toward the skies, her fingers straining to reach that brick.  Her fingertips brush it, but she can't grab on.  A brief look to her right tells her how close they are getting.  The adrenaline pulsing in her veins forces the air in her lungs to work overtime, and black and blue spots begin to haze the corners of her vision as she leaps once more.  Her body glides through the air, upward like a blast shot.  She reaches the apex of her jump, her fingers grabbing the brick- _yes!_ -and she pulls the balls of her feet onto the wall to try and boost her way up further, her body stretching and contracting to try and reach the roof that now feels farther than ever.  

But then, she feels it.  A stony hand wraps its way around her ankle and before she can say  _kriff_ , her body is unceremoniously yanked from the wall, sending her careening to the ground.  She isn't entirely sure the moment happened in slow-motion, but it certainly feels like it is.  

"Why you runnin', Commodore?"

It is Beolo's voice that she hears, but it is Rycard's face that suddenly bends down to appear directly in front of her, his big, unsettling eyes so wide it felt as though they were attempting to burn holes in her flesh.  If he were not so close, Saramar would roll her eyes at the ridiculous nickname. In her younger and more naive years, she used to run a fleet of sandspeeders, sharking rigged races with the poor saps who lived out in the sticks, on the moisture farms.  They gave her that nickname then and it just sort of stuck.  She wished it wouldn't have, but since none of her other wishes ever came true, she figures why should they start now? She breathes in a ragged lung-full of air, coughing when she inhales a mouth of sand, writhing as she tries to catch her breath. 

"Because I gave you my answer and repeating myself isn't gonna make you very happy," she finally wheezes. 

Rycard pulls her to her feet by the scruff of her neck, unceremoniously tossing her against the nearest wall.  Wincing in pain, Saramar bites her lip to keep tears from falling.  She knows that, if she lives through this, she will have bruises to deal with in the morning.  Just what she needs. 

"Then tell me what I want to hear.  We've got the market. And you need the credits," Beolo purrs, his perfectly white teeth shaved into perfectly sharp points glistening in the midday suns.  

It was only a week ago when these same two creatures- lackeys of the Hutt clan and feared by any who cross their paths- cornered her in the market and set her up with a proposition.  And with a whole week gone by, her position on their offer has not changed.  It's tempting, painless, and profitable, to be sure.  But she can never go back to doing that.  Not ever.  

"I won't do it." 

It's more of a spit than a sentence. Looming over her, Beolo tilts his mouth in a crooked smile that is meant to intimidate her.  It works. 

"Alright then.  Your funeral.  We'll take it from you, one way or another."

She only has a split second to act and even that might not be enough. Beolo reaches into his pocket for a shimmering needle as Rycard dives in to pin Saramar against the wall.  With all of the strength she possesses, the young woman reaches for Rycard's bowed head, pushing it downward.  With his back bent, Saramar manages to use him as a stepping stool, propelling herself upward with a leap and grabbing for that elusive brick above their heads.  The two men below her grapple to recover, Beolo for the slightest moment looking up at her body scrambling up the wall with a sense of awe and wonder.  She's always been elusive prey. But the disbelief lasts for a fraction of a breath before he reaches down for his partner, trying to get the big lug to move into action, any kind of action. 

But by the time they manage to look up again, she's already gone.  

Saramar cannot hear their struggle to follow her path up the wall, nor can she see them any longer.  At last, the moment is over, and as she runs over the roofs of the poor Mos Eisley slums, she can hear nothing but the wind rushing in her ears, and she can see nothing but the bluest of jade skies hanging all around her. 

 _Another close call_ , she thinks with a defeated sigh as she stops to catch her breath, looking out over the back streets that have been nearly abandoned as the midday heat draws ever closer, _I've gotta lay low for a while_.  

And with that thought, she begins a slow and weary trudge back to her own tiny slum, somehow knowing in the back of her mind that no matter how low she manages to lay, someone is going to eventually catch up with her. 

* * *

Obi-Wan puts a thoughtful hand to his beard as he appraises Breccon, sitting across the room from him.  Peculiar.  Most peculiar.  A drop in Midi-chlorians.  How strange.  How...disturbing. 

"Now, what has brought you here?" He asks, leaning back slightly in his chair, explaining himself honestly and clearly, "I know very little of Midi-chlorians, besides what they taught us at the Academy, but that's training you've also had."

He can see how the young man might want to seek out others of his own kind, especially if he was in the Temple at the time of the Purge and did somehow manage to escape.  But this feels more... This feels more focused than that.  This is not a chance meeting for a coincidental get-together.  No, this is purposeful and deliberate, a meeting for a reason that Obi-Wan has yet to uncover but that he nervously awaits.

"But you're a Jedi Master," Breccon answers, as if it is an obvious reply. 

Shaking his head, Obi-Wan tuts, "That doesn't-"

Breccon was not finished.  He looks up at Master Kenobi, his head bowed and his eyes uncertain and probing, but his voice clear and direct as he says, "A Jedi Master who knows Tatooine."

A Jedi Master who knows Tatooine?  It doesn't make any sense.  The man in question furrows his brow, suddenly suspicious and intensely curious.  What could he possibly have to offer this young man?  What could a hermit like him do to help?

"And what could that possibly have to do-" He begins, only to be cut off yet again. 

Sitting on the floor, Breccon's hands begin to shake, a habit he has developed in the days after the attack on the Temple.  He swallows hard, the saliva in his throat tasting more like bile than anything else, and he wonders idly if he looks as deranged and desperate as he feels.  All of his searching has led to this moment, this moment of possibility for hope and heartbreak.  He speaks, his troubled mind bleeding into the quiet hum of his voice. 

"There's someone here.  On Tatooine.  I've heard..." He trails off, unable to continue his thought, lost in the dreams he's been having lately.

Dreams of a young woman with scars buried beneath her skin, her blood shining in the starlight.  That's the woman he's trying to find, he knows it.  He's never seen her in real life, has no memory or reality of her but the imagined image his mind has created of her.  And now, as he speaks of the idea of her, he's confronted with that same sweat-inducing fear that he's been wracked with since hearing of her.   _What if I can't do it?_ Master Kenobi waits patiently for Breccon to continue, but the longer he waits the longer he knows he will not be getting an unprompted answer.  Clearing his throat, he gently eggs the young man on.

"What?" He asks.

That small word pulls Breccon from his nightmares; he shakes his head as if to clear it, knowing that he will never be fully rid of them.   The stench of the images hangs in the  air around him, intoxicating him. He presses onward as best as he can, stopping every few words to recover from the ones that he has just spoken, allowing their impact to land squarely on the chest of the Jedi Master sharing the room with him. 

"I've heard that they sell they...Whoever they are, they're part regenerative creature.  I don't know what species, no one would tell me.  But... They can replicate their Midi-chlorians at will.  The rumor is that...They sell them.  They sell their Midi-chlorians. On the black market."

Of all the things that Obi-Wan could have guessed Breccon would say, this might have been the last he would have thought of.  The air in his hut suddenly seems unbearably hot and cramped, as if thirty more people tried to shove themselves into the room when Obi-Wan wasn't paying attention.  Someone who could replicate and sell their Midi-chlorians...It sounds like complete fiction; He wants to flat-out refuse to believe it.   But...All the same, there is a part of him that wants to believe it could be true.  A small part of him, perhaps, but a part nonetheless.  

"If this is true, and I see no reason why you should believe that it is, then you'll need-"

 _Money. Time. A Prayer of Succeeding_.  There are a hundred ways to end that thought, and Breccon has prepared for all of them. It's been ten months since he realized what was happening to his body, ten months since he discovered that some sort of sickness had taken control of him, and every day since he's been devising a plan, calculating his strategies.  This is his life, after all. Nothing was going to stop him from saving it. 

"I've got credits.  They can have it all-"

But Obi-Wan is not finished.

"And you'd need someone who could perform a transplant, and I don't think-"

Another eventuality that Breccon ha prepared for. 

"You could do it," he says, the eagerness rolling off of his tongue.

Winded, Master Kenobi stares at the young man with an incredulity that comes when one is finds oneself toe-to-toe with the insane. 

"Me?" He asks. 

Breccon nods, reaching into the small pack at his side which he has been defensively hiding for the majority of their meeting behind him. He pulls out a small scroll, cradling it in his hands with a reverent gentility.  

"You," he says, the single word cryptic and frightening enought to send shivers down the old Master's spine; he begins to unravel the scroll, staring at contents he's long since memorized, "It's more of a spiritual ceremony than anything else.  I found some texts from a temple-"

His hand shoots out to take the scroll, unable to believe his eyes.  Something that survived from one of the Temples.  Perhaps the boy was able to get somewhere before the Empire was......

"Let me see that," he commands. 

Breccon obliges, his weary eyes watching Obi-Wan's every move guardedly.  Pulling the text open, Obi-Wan begins to read it, devouring its contents with hungry, frightened eyes. He's never seen anything like this- nothing this complex, this deeply disturbing.  His harsh voice immediately softens, the hard edges turning soft as he realizes just how desperate Breccon must be.  He senses no darkness in him, no lust for greater power or control.  Just the will to return to normalcy.  A will that Kenobi understands all too well. The more he takes in of the scribbles of ancient Jedi text, the bigger his eyes become, the more apprehensive his spirit.  What is before him is a process both terrifying and mystifying all at once.  He finds himself disgusted and yet unable to look away. 

"...This could be very painful.  And very dangerous," he cautions. 

Pulling the text from the hands of the older man, Breccon attempts to make him understand, to make him see.  There is a raging fire that has ignited the veins in his body, tearing blazing trails everywhere it goes; he is so close to having at least a fraction of his old life back.   He cannot go back now; he cannot lose that which he feels belongs to him. 

"I can't lose my connection with the Force, Obi-Wan." 

When Master Kenobi hears those words, he knows what to say, what comes next.  But... He knows his resolve is wavering and quickly.  

"You must let go of what you fear to lose," comes the simple lesson. 

It's an adage that Breccon recognizes from his days at the Academy.  You must let go of everything you fear to lose.   _Oh_ , those words are as comforting- the feeling of warm water on dirty skin-as they are disconcerting.  He will not let a proverb steal his hope.  His only hope. 

"I don't fear to lose it for my sake.  I fear to lose it because," he pauses, a million deaths flashing behind his eyes as he tries to choke back the emotions that are threatening to drown him,  "We are the only ones left. I don't want the Order to be forgotten."

He recaptures the old Master's eyes.  Those tired, lost eyes that have seen too much and not enough all at once.  Too much war.  Too much death.  Too much exile. Not enough salvation.  Not enough closure.  Not enough hope. 

"Obi-Wan," Breccon says, "I need your help."

Leaning back, the old man knows that his decision is made.  The Force has clearly laid a path for him, and he can feel his fallen brothers and sisters who have joined the Force whispering to him.   _This is your new journey. Don't turn your back on anyone you can save._   

"A creature on Tatooine who can generate Midi-chlorians?" He asks, raising an eyebrow.

Breccon nods, once. 

"Yes."

The galaxy hangs in the balance of the silence before Obi-Wan Kenobi speaks again. 

"There's only one place to look for a someone like that," he rises to his feet, looking out of his window in the direction of the port, gazing with a certainty and apprehension that shakes Breccon to his core, "Mos Eisley."


End file.
